You Know Where to Find Me
by hatondog
Summary: In the last moments of TFP, we saw Sherlock text "You know where to find me." Here is the response he received.


John shifted Rosie higher in his arms as he walked into 221B. She was going through a phase where she clung to him like a monkey and his shoulders had begun to ache from carrying her. Not for the first time, he mused that Lamaze classes should definitely include lifting bags of flour to build muscles for all the hauling parents did after birth.

"Sherlock?" he called. The living room was empty, although a fire burned low against the evening chill. With a quick look to his left, John confirmed that the kitchen was similarly devoid of detective. He called out again, with no response.

Just as John decided to check the bedroom, he noticed the tea set resting on the side table next to what he would always think of as "his chair." It included a half-filled tea cup whose match sat on the table across. It didn't take much of a deduction to conclude that Sherlock had had a visitor.

Remembering a similar day in the past when the closed door to Sherlock's bedroom yielded a surprise in the form of Janine, John hesitated to go to it. He had no reason to believe that she or anyone else other than Sherlock was behind the door, but even the remote possibility was enough to stop him from knocking. As he dithered over whether to stay or go, Rosie began to fuss, now wanting down. He was letting her slide slowly to the floor when Sherlock emerged from his room, shutting the door quickly behind him.

"Er, hi. Didn't know where you'd gotten off to—I was hoping I could persuade you to join us for dinner."

Sherlock coughed in response.

"Thanks, but no," he said, his voice raspy. "I think I'm getting a cold, wouldn't want to give it to Rosie."

John's brow furrowed. It usually took being steps from death's door to get Sherlock to admit to feeling unwell. Even factoring Rosie into the equation, it seemed unlikely that a cough would cause him to be homebound. He stepped forward, reaching a hand toward Sherlock's forehead.

"Any fever?" he asked. Sherlock dodged the contact and moved off into the living room. Rosie cried out her objection to being ignored.

"No, nothing. Just a cold, no reason to fret. I just don't want to expose Rosie, so you should go along now." Sherlock shot a strained smile in Rosie's direction. She toddled toward him, dropping to her diapered bottom with a wail when he sidestepped away. "Sorry, Rosie, I can't play tonight." Sherlock turned, coughing into his hand.

John watched him. "Nasty cough," he observed. "Is it productive?"

"No, I can assure you, it is entirely unhelpful," Sherlock shot back.

"No, I mean do you get any congestion up when you cough?" John clarified.

Sherlock looked disgusted. "I should hope not," he said. Coughing twice more, he peeked at John from behind his hand. The latter went still, lips pressed together. Sherlock sighed. He tried another cough, but his heart wasn't in it.

"You know, Sherlock, one of the things that has always impressed me about you has been your acting skills. You're really good—you could be a professional if you wanted to be."

"Thank you?" said Sherlock in a questioning tone.

"So I'm a bit insulted, really. If you were going to try to fool a doctor by pretending to have a medical condition, I'd think you'd manage to put on a better performance."

"John, I-" Sherlock broke off as John spun toward the bedroom. "Stop!" he called, all raspiness gone from his voice.

"What is it this time, Sherlock?" John asked angrily. "Cocaine again? Or did we go for a custom mixture this time? Maybe with Billy's help?" John gestured toward the tea set.

"I am _not_ taking drugs," Sherlock snapped.

"I don't believe you," John said. "We've been gone for two days, only two, Sherlock. A quick visit to Harry, but I was afraid of something like this when Greg told me he couldn't reach you. How could you?"

"I'm NOT HIGH!" shouted Sherlock.

"Prove it," John yelled back.

"Boys!" a voice rang out. John's eyes squeezed closed and he shook his head.

"I believe your exact words to me were that I should "get some of that"," said Sherlock softly. "Just following my doctor's orders."

"Well, I've been called many things, but this is the first time I've been considered a prescription. I'm flattered," Irene Adler purred as she pulled Sherlock's robe tighter around her. John turned and opened his eyes.

"Ms. Adler," he said.

"Dr. Watson," she answered. "It's been a long time." There was a certain smugness on Irene's face which slipped away as she saw Rosie. "Are you Rosie?" she asked in a delighted voice.

"I Rosie!" the little girl burbled in response. Irene knelt beside her.

"I'm Irene. I'm an old friend of your daddy's," she said with a grin to John. He sighed and reluctantly returned the smile. He glanced over at Sherlock as Irene launched into an impromptu game of peek-a-boo.

"Sorry to interrupt," John said, his smile widening. "Rosie and I will head on home. See you tomorrow?"

Sherlock's eyes slipped to Irene. She stood, stretching.

"I think I'll need lots of rest tomorrow, if tonight is anything to go by," she said, laughing. "Plenty of time for you two to catch up."

A red flush crept over Sherlock's face. "Um, then, yes. See you tomorrow," he said with a slight stammer.

Irene looked down at Rosie. "Very nice to meet you, ma'am." She waggled her fingers at John and started back to the bedroom. "Coming along?" she called over her shoulder to Sherlock.

John hefted Rosie up and turned to Sherlock, leaning in.

"Just for the record?" he said. "It's about time. Don't screw this up."

Sherlock looked a bit flustered, but grinned.

"You're the expert on women. What was that odious nickname, "Three Continents Watson?" he snarked.

"Just so," John answered. He patted Sherlock on the shoulder and headed for the door. Looking back, he said softly, "I'm happy for you, mate."

"Me too," said Sherlock. He made a face at Rosie, who squealed in happiness as her father carried her home.


End file.
